


losing all thought of spring

by orcamermaid



Series: The Inherent Romanticism of Dragons [1]
Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Backstory, Bullying, Changelings, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Physical Abuse, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28381725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orcamermaid/pseuds/orcamermaid
Summary: She's seen the world outside her home. Her parents aren't the problem. She's the problem. No matter where she goes, she'll never be human, and humans will always hate her. At least here she's clothed and fed.
Series: The Inherent Romanticism of Dragons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832185
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	losing all thought of spring

**Author's Note:**

> title from bluebells by patrick wolf.

Nastya doesn't remember leaving the Court. She doesn't remember a moment when they took her to a human house and she knew she'd never see them again. She remembers Before, a vague, bright haze, the sound of music all around her, and she remembers After, but she doesn't remember how it felt when it changed. Sometimes, when she's still very young, she wonders if they gave her away because she couldn't be a boy, and they wanted a boy. She's very sure that even before she left the Court she knew she wasn't a boy. She's questioned a lot of things, but never that. If she knows nothing else, she at least knows this: she's a girl, and the Court knew it, and her human parents know it. They don't do many decent things, her parents, but they never argue with her about that. They let her use her proper name. They call her their daughter. Granted, it's usually preceded by words like "demon" or "false" or "horrible," but she still prefers it to "son."

* * *

She's five years old the first time she understands. Her parents don't often allow her to leave the house, but just this once her mother has let her come to market with her. The older children whisper as she passes, staring at the pointed ears she does not yet know to hide. (Her parents see no point. Everybody in the village already knows what she is.) An old man spits at her, and she stumbles, frightened and confused. She hurries to keep pace with her mother. She reaches out to grasp her skirts in her small hand, to anchor herself, but her mother bats her hand away.

"Behave yourself," she hisses. "Don't embarrass me."

Nastya clutches both hands to her chest and holds back tears, stumbling along behind her mother. She feels very alone. The adults stare at her with open disgust. She catches snippets of the things they call her—monster, changeling, evil. She looks up at her mother, at her drawn mouth and hard eyes. Nastya knows, then. She knows there's something wrong with her. She knows that her parents hate her, and that _everyone_ hates her, even people she has never met.

She feels this knowledge settle inside her and wrap itself around her heart. It never leaves her.

* * *

She's always known her parents aren't really her parents. She's always known they didn't want her; she's always known they had a real child, once, and that she's an evil replacement left behind for them. Not because she remembers the Court—that would be easy enough to dismiss as childish dreams—but because it's always been made very clear to her. She supposes that it was nice of them to let her stay. They didn't have to. They could have left her to die somewhere; nobody would have questioned the disappearance of their strange changeling child. Sometimes, when she's a little older, she wishes they had. At least then she wouldn't be so alone. At least then nobody could hurt her.

She never hurts herself. Some vague sense of stubbornness keeps her from exacerbating the damage others have done to her; she's not going to do their job for them. Instead she curls up in her bed, or under it, and purrs until her heart no longer feels like it's about to beat right out of her chest. She cries a lot when she's very young, but it doesn't take her long to learn that crying doesn't help. Crying only makes people angrier. She stops crying, mostly.

* * *

Nastya is outside the tavern, peering in through the window, so close that her nose nearly touches the glass. She's seven years old, and barely tall enough to see inside. It's cold outside, the late autumn chill turning the tip of her nose a deep silver, but the tavern looks very warm, lit by a large fireplace and several lanterns. More importantly, there's music. They've got a lively little band going, though she doesn't recognise any of the instruments—her parents haven't taught her much about music, and she can't ask anyone in the village. Her eyes are fixed on Rose Millwood, with her thick blond waves glowing in the firelight and an elegant stringed instrument resting against her shoulder. Her right hand grasps a long, slim bow, which dances over the strings as she plays. It is the most beautiful thing Nastya has ever heard. She aches to go inside, to join the villagers boisterously singing along, to warm herself by the fire, to touch the shining lacquered wood of Rose's instrument.

Thomas Ackerman, sitting near the back of the room with a mug of ale in his hand, turns and catches sight of her pale face through the window, her eyes wide with wonder. His expression shifts in the span of a few seconds from carefree joy to anger and bottomless contempt. Nastya runs.

* * *

She doesn't know what her role would have been in the Court, had she been permitted to grow up there. Surely, she thinks, surely she would have been a musician. Surely that is what she was meant for. She can think of no other reason for the way music tugs at her soul, the way she feels it like a physical thing, like a rushing river. Perhaps the Court had too many musicians, so they gave one away, traded her for a human who could do something she couldn't. In her bed at night, she tries to picture the strange and wondrous instruments they must play: asymmetrical things formed from ice or precious metals or the branches of trees, with strings made of cobwebs and moonlight. Things you play by dancing, things you play by speaking, things you play by wishing. Her voice has no great beauty, such as (she supposes) one might expect from a fae child, but she sings to herself nonetheless. It is a small comfort, but a comfort.

* * *

Nastya pulls the front door open with shaking hands and stumbles inside, skin still aching from the iron that was pressed against it. Her mother, peeling potatoes in the kitchen, scowls at her.

"Again?" she says. "Why can't you just stay out of trouble, Anastasia?"

"I'm sorry, mother," Nastya mumbles. She doesn't think she did much to provoke anyone—she doesn't think she ever does—but that doesn't seem to matter.

Her mother sets the knife down on the table and gets up, then crosses the room and slaps Nastya across the face.

"Speak up," she barks. "And look at me when I'm talking to you, child."

Nastya forces herself to meet her mother's eyes. She nods mutely. Her mother huffs and returns to her task, and Nastya scurries into her room. She sits down heavily on the bed and stares at the wall in front of her. She doesn't cry.

* * *

She thinks that if her parents loved her, it wouldn't be so bad to be hated by the rest of the village. Or if the rest of the village didn't mind her, she could perhaps put up with being hated by her parents. But that's not the case. At home, she faces either cold indifference or screaming and violence; if she ventures outside, it's worse. Children her age seem to think it's a fun game to chase her down and beat her. Adults are worse, with their cold iron and endless questions— _Why are you here? Why don't you go back to your own kind and stop polluting our village? You're putting curses on us, aren't you? The harvest failed because of you, didn't it? Devil child!_ She never has answers for them, or at least not answers they find satisfactory. She doesn't know why she's here. She can't go home. She doesn't know any magic. She tells them these things over and over, but they never believe her.

* * *

Juliet Sharrow, the tanner's daughter, has her cornered against the wall of a barn, twisting the strap of her iron pendant around one finger. She hasn't touched Nastya with it yet, but the close proximity already hurts, a steady pressure in her head. Juliet watches her with cold fascination.

"My dad says the Vangelises had another child before you," she says. "He says their baby disappeared and they got you instead. Is that true?"

Nastya nods, unable to tear her eyes from the pendant. Juliet hums.

"What did you do to it?"

Nastya furrows her brow, looking up at Juliet's face.

"What?"

"The kid," Juliet says impatiently. "What did you do? Did you eat it?"

"What?! N-no!" Nastya says, horrified. "I didn't do anything! They just took it and left me!"

Juliet doesn't believe her. It only takes a few days for her to spread the word to every child in the village that Nastya ate her parents' real human child, that she probably still eats people. Her father hits her for allowing the other children to spread lies about their family, but does nothing to stop the rumour. The villagers apparently feel even more comfortable hurting her now that they can tell themselves it's in self-defence. She doesn't know if they actually believe she eats children, but it doesn't seem to matter.

* * *

She doesn't know when she first thought about running away. She must have been very young. It's a frequent daydream, but never one that comforts her for very long. She's seen the world outside her home. Her parents aren't the problem. _She's_ the problem. No matter where she goes, she'll never be human, and humans will always hate her. At least here she's clothed and fed.

She's fifteen when she finally works up the courage to run. She can't stay here. She might be the problem, there might be nowhere that's truly safe for her, but she'd rather take her chances on her own. She waits until her parents are asleep, then ghosts into the kitchen—she's always been light on her feet; she supposes her fae blood is good for something after all—and steals the stash of coins they keep in a jar beneath a floorboard, transferring it to a pouch she tucks into her clothing. It's no fortune, but it'll buy her a few meals. She doesn't take much else with her. She packs a single change of clothes and her thick winter coat, as well as a waterskin and what's left of a loaf of bread. At the last second she shoves a knife into her bag. Then she leaves, wandering aimlessly out into the night. She doesn't look back.


End file.
